


The once and future mate

by backfourteen



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Boxing Day, Christmas, Flirty boys, Liverpool, Liverpool F.C., Long-Distance Friendship, M/M, Manchester City, Phone Calls & Telephones, Torino
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 00:24:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8306740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backfourteen/pseuds/backfourteen
Summary: It’s snowing in Liverpool a few days later, which is quite unusual. The city glows white and everyone is sleepy. James is fresh out of the shower, hair still dripping, jumper and track pants sticking to him as he couldn’t be bothered to wait until he was dry to bundle up. Kettle going, laundry going, chores done, shopping done. The place is spotless. Training through for the day. He finds that he is very productive when call Charlie is on the to-do list because he always puts it off until the very end. Because of how nervous it makes him since he left Manchester.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raumdeuter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/gifts).



> I really love James Milner. And only after he was shipped off to Turin did I realize how much I love Joe Hart. And they clearly love each other. So this was long overdue.
> 
> I'm all about this pair, but I had no idea [a very milly series ](http://archiveofourown.org/series/380020) existed until I was halfway through writing this fic. So I'm dedicating this to you, [raumdeuter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/pseuds/raumdeuter). Thanks for birthing this m/m on here and hopefully I've done you proud.

“It feels weird not to say ‘From the Embassy Row Studios in the crap part of SoHo, Men in Blazers world headquarters,’ Rog.”

“You’re right, Davo. It’s the Men in Blazers podcast, but from the crap part of London, mate. But not as crap as Blackheath.” 

“Blackheath is a lovely place. And notice that we’re not broadcasting live from the crap part of your hometown.” 

“I’ll call the lads from Bootle then, you can say that to them.” 

James jumps in for the first time. “Don’t worry Davo, ‘ve got the Loiners on the phone.” 

Rog and Davo dissolve into laughter, bubbly and bright as always, and James smiles, straight white teeth set heavily in an uncomfortable line. James still isn’t entirely sure why he was invited to appear on their podcast for the upcoming Boxing Day and New Years’ Day fixtures. He is very different from the Men in Blazers lads but he enjoys them – he’s content to sit back and watch them make their magic. James always finds himself engrossed in the fascinating world of extroverts and is taken by surprise every time Rog or Davo ask him a question or for his opinion. 

“Koeman, of course, a wunderkind – how do you say that in Dutch? – an absolute beauty of a man, has given me an endless tingling all through my body. Wouldn’t have bet my own life on Everton being top four coming into the 2017 if you asked me in August – ” 

“Hey, hey, Rog. Milly here and his men could still overtake you lot before 2017. Very close race for fourth.” 

Davo winks at James and James smiles back before replying. 

“He’s right.” 

“That’s fine, James. But stay out of this, Davo. Not allowed to comment on the race for top four if your men aren’t even in the top six.” 

James pipes in and they both turn to him eagerly. “It’s been tough. Erm, for Chelsea. Losing Costa to injury.” 

“You don’t sound sad about that at all, James, mate.” 

James wrings his hands and bites at a nervous grin. Rog and Davo take gratuitous sips of their Guinness. 

“Not mad at all about Diego Costa. Bournemouth will be buzzing on Boxing Day away at Chelsea. Can’t rely on one man for your goals like that. Shouldn’t have to. And Rog, about Everton. About Barkley in particular. Barkley has been really poor. But Everton will run circles round Leicester in a few days, but that’s only because Leicester are in free fall. How’s Koeman not dropped him yet. Barkley, I mean. I like him, he’s a nice lad. But, erm, yeah. How’s that? Good? Erm, banter-wise.” 

Rog and Davo both pause and look at each other quickly, and Rog reaches for his shoulder and squeezes, Davo nodding with scrunched expression of deep understanding. They both huddle closer to James, who instinctively scoots a little further away. 

“If you drank, mate, I’d crack open a Guinness for you. I’d give you my own Guinness. I’d give you the shirt off my back. James Milner. You beautiful man. You’re not boring at all, are you?” 

Davo pats the sleeve of James’s Liverpool jumper, eyes mischievous. “You’re not boring at all.” 

They talk and talk and talk. To James it seems like hours go by as the topics weave in and out of his interests – he’s tired. He doesn’t like London. Traffic and crowds stress him out. He doesn’t like sleeping away from home. Rog and Davo are great, but he’s also feeling peckish. He’s about to ask when tea is when they say something about Joe. He forgets about tea. 

“Our good friend Charles, Joe ‘more magic, David, more magic’ Hart, the champion of tunnels. He’s loving Torino, isn’t he. His wobbly start abroad forgotten. The Italians adore him. Joe, _nostro amato bionda inglese_.” 

“Whoa, Rog, only James here can call Harty by his real first name. It’s a roommates thing.” 

James sets his jaw firmly. 

“Charlie’s good. I spoke to him recently on the phone. He’s coming home for the holidays. He’s settled in. Likes Italy enough. Truly a foreign country, as they say.” 

“I think only Rushie says that,” Davo says. 

“But really, James. City come to Anfield on New Years’ Eve. Will we hear Joe shouting for Yaya from the stands?” 

“Don’t think Joe will be yelling for Yaya, but not because he won’t be in the stands.” 

“Because he’ll be supporting his best mate at Liverpool?” 

Rog and Davo laugh but James grinds his teeth while smiling back politely. 

“Because Yaya’ll not be starting.” 

“Right, James, right. Seems Pep won’t let Yaya anywhere near his bench, let alone the starting eleven.” 

As they wrap up the recording of everything they need for the podcast – just James’ explanation of how a lack of Europe has been beneficial to the team rather than detrimental took six tries – James is completely worn but Rog and Davo continue to glitter, pursuing conversation even as they leave the studio. 

“Send Joe our love, mate.” 

“I will if we cross paths over the holiday.” As if they wouldn’t. 

“Wonder how Harty feels about Bravo being, frankly, quite a flop. City’s greatest Achilles heel this season. Have any insight for us, Milly?” 

“I really don’t. We don’t talk much about football when we do. Mostly about, erm. The races. Family. Italian food.” 

“About Pep?” 

James shrugs. He thinks about what he’ll text Joe as soon as he gets in the car. 

“Wouldn’t share even if I had anything to. Cheers Rog, Davo. See you at Anfield.” 

_______________

It’s snowing in Liverpool a few days later, which is quite unusual. The city glows white and everyone is sleepy. James is fresh out of the shower, hair still dripping, jumper and track pants sticking to him as he couldn’t be bothered to wait until he was dry to bundle up. Kettle going, laundry going, chores done, shopping done. The place is spotless. Training through for the day. He finds that he is very productive when _call Charlie_ is on the to-do list because he always puts it off until the very end. Because of how nervous it makes him since he left Manchester. 

“Hiya, James. Actually just finished up listening to your spot on the podcast, mate. Cracking.” 

“You think?” 

“Wouldn’t think that was your scene. They’re a bit – ” 

“Loud. But they’re nice.” 

“I was going to say chatty.” 

“They really wanted to talk about you. Wanted an exclusive. How’s Harty doing in Italy, what’s he saying about Pep.” 

James props the phone between his ear and shoulder as he pours his tea, no sugar or milk. 

“Haven’t said a word about Pep, have I. The twat.” 

James can hear Joe smile into the phone and James shakes his head as if Joe is there to see him respond. A bit of water from his head flicks onto the hot stove and sizzles. 

“You’ve been doing well, then, Charlie. You sound well.” 

“Much happier than I was at the beginning. You sounded good on the podcast.” 

“I am, I really am. Having a proper season here. And Liverpool is quiet.” 

“You look good, Milly. Your game. On the telly.” 

James grins into his tea as he scrolls through his recorded shows, decidedly not mentioning the sheer amount of Serie A matches from obscure football channels he pays a bit extra for. He’s a bit behind on the Torino matches, but he decided months ago he wasn’t going to tell Joe about that. About his newfound interest in Italian football. Footballers. 

“We’re all feeling quite confident. Could be going into the new year in fourth.” 

“I know. You said that on the podcast.” 

“Alright then. You know everything, so why’ve you rang me and left me a message.” 

“We’ve got a lovely Christmas break here and I’m coming home for a spell. I’ll stay with you for a bit? My last match before the break is the 22nd, Genoa at home.” 

James looks around his chilly, soundless house quickly and realized he would love nothing more than having Joe around for Christmas. The holiday starts playing out in his head before Joe speaks again and the intimately domestic thoughts dissipate, leaving James a bit embarrassed. 

“You’ve got at least a few days between then and your Boxing Day match, yeah? And between Boxing Day and New Years Eve. I’ll be with mum and dad for a bit, of course. Want to come round Shropshire for the Christmas dinner? Holidays in Shrewsbury?” 

“I’ve, erm. Got Amy’s family for Christmas. They’re coming here for the holiday.” 

“Milly, you’re a shit cook. I never see you eat unless we go out.” 

“I’ll be more involved in the decorating. And the cleaning up afterward.” 

“Washing all the bedding and towels, I’ll bet. Thrilling for you.” 

Joe snickers as James settles on darts on the telly and he sinks back into the sofa, laughing back a little. 

“Been a long time, Charlie. Would love to come round yours for Christmas, wish I could.” 

There’s silence on both ends and James wants to say anything, but everything he’s thinking would make him sound silly. 

“If you hadn’t retired, I’d see you more often.” 

“Can’t believe I’m missing the chance of a lifetime. With, erm, Southgate.” 

Joe laughs aloud. They talk in circles for a few more minutes about nothing and it’s comfortable. It feels good. 

“Bang one in this weekend, yeah Milly? Good luck with the derby. 50 quid and an early Christmas gift on you scoring from open play.” 

“Shouldn’t be an issue, I’m on it. You’ll have seen City’s still top of the table.” 

“More worried about you and your lot these days.” 

And James bites back a wild smirk as they promise to see each other soon and hang up. 

_______________

James wouldn’t admit it aloud, but he’s a bit stressed with all the visitors. Amy’s family, from her youngest nephews and nieces to her ancient great-granddad, keeps bumping into his immaculately arranged Christmas tree, keep knocking the presents about, keep sticking “Wonderful Christmastime” on repeat and forgetting about it so it plays for forty-five minutes straight. It smells amazing in the house – the Christmas Eve meal might actually end up just as extravagant as the Christmas meal, thankfully Amy’s mum and dad can cook – and he loves the family dearly, but James just needs a moment. Late afternoon on Christmas Eve, and he can only handle so many relatives-in-law swinging from the holly and ivy after polishing off the third round of mulled wine. 

He sits in an armchair in his bedroom and massages a small twinge in his calf that’s been lingering since the derby, which they won comfortably and in which James scored a penalty. Fourth place is good and spirits are high. The team had just celebrated Christmas and he’d received the newest model of the finest iron in England from Hendo. He knows his boring Twitter persona reputation precedes him, but the iron is also a brilliant gift. He's very satisfied. 

The sound in the house shifts and quiets a bit – someone new has entered the festivities. He yanks up the leg of his Liverpool track pants to dig into the calf muscle and doesn’t consider going out to greet the new guest until “Wonderful Christmastime” abruptly stops and James thinks it must be bloody Christ himself that’s stopped by if that got the family to stop listening to Macca. But then the bedroom door flies open and Amy’s standing there, young nieces and nephews around her legs, with Joe in tow, blonde and damp, holding a stack of slightly soggy newspapers. 

“Hiya, James. Happy Christmas.” 

James stands up and Amy shuts the door behind her, leaving them standing in the bedroom. “Wonderful Christmastime” starts back up in the background. 

“Erm, didn’t expect you today. But Happy Christmas, of course.” 

Joe looks James up and down, in full, baggy tracksuit, one leg hiked up to expose a stiff calf, feet in house slippers. Joe is dressed in his finest holiday clothes and jacket. Crisp jumper, slim pants, good shoes. 

“Are you just out of bed?” Joe asks. 

“No, I'm not, thanks. Could’ve rang me and I would’ve smartened up.” 

“It’s your own home, mate. I’m on my way to my mum and dad’s and I wanted to stop off. No expectations.” 

“Liverpool is not on the way to Shrops, Charlie.” 

“No, it’s not. Can I sit?” James's stomach twists. 

“Yeah, yeah, sure, of course.” 

He lets Joe sit in the armchair and takes the wet newspapers from him, offering to lay them out to dry but really just wanting to hide his quickly reddening face. He notices that the newspapers are the sports section of an Italian publication – _La Stampa_ – and feature Joe in the Toro maroon in goal at home against Genoa. James stares and tries to understand any of it but knows absolutely no Italian. 

“Man of the match.” 

Joe adds with a smile and James turns back to him from the papers draped on the dresser, desk, and part of the bed, sighing with a smile back. 

“What’s this mean. The headline. _Ti sbagli, Pep_.” 

James knows he’s murdered the Italian but Joe doesn’t mind. 

“I had to ask my mates in the squad what it meant. It means you’re wrong. _You were wrong_.” 

Joe’s voice is tight with pride and James sits on the bed facing him. 

“Well, he was. You know that.” 

They look at each other for a minute and it’s a pregnant pause in conversation, like something significant will come from one or both of them next. Joe reaches up and wipes rain dripping from his hair off his forehead, never breaking his eye contact with James. 

“Want a towel?” James asks, and Joe laughs, exasperated. 

“That’s romantic.” 

Amy opens the door again, a glass of mulled wine in hand and a cup of tea in the other. Joe nearly hops out of his seat as Amy looks around at the newspapers littering the room and nods absently, dismissively. 

“I’ve brought drinks. Feel free to join the family, boys.” 

They both go for the tea but James shoots Joe an exasperated look and Joe takes the wine, politely thanking Amy. 

“Joe, you can take your coat off, make yourself comfortable. Sorry James has forgotten his manners. And you’ll stay for dinner? Mum and Dad have made enough food for all of Merseyside.” 

“Actually, I’ve got to get to my own mum and dad’s. Bit of a trip to Shrops.” 

“Shropshire? And you’ve come to Liverpool? From Italy?” 

Joe nods sheepishly, itching behind his ear. 

“Well, with this rain, you’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like. Sleeping space is a bit tight but we can make room if you’d like to stay. At least finish up your drink, don’t waste a good wine.” And she leaves again. 

“Not sure how she does that. Absolutely concerned with everything, good to everyone.” 

“She’s onto me, James.” 

“Onto us, more like. Anyone that knows Merseyside is not on the way to Shropshire would be. Now finish up your wine, trying to get you drunk.” 

And Joe grins into his glass, nudging James’s knee with his own. Joe pulls out his phone. 

“Hiya, mum? Yeah, shocking weather round here, my flight’s been delayed. Rain, mostly. I’m stuck in Italy, won’t be round until early tomorrow morning. No, don’t get dad, he’ll be cross. Tomorrow morning as the sun comes up, swear on my life. Bringing decent presents as well from Turin, of course. Yeah, yeah. Love you, mum. Happy Christmas Eve.” 

_______________

A bit too much food and wine later, Joe is sprawled out on the small bed in the last remaining guest room, no shirt and James’s old City track pants tight and small on him. Pink stains Joe high on his cheekbones, eyes a little glassy but satisfied. He’s humming “Wonderful Christmastime” and James, sat close on the edge of the bed, doesn’t mind. 

“Does Amy’s family always do a practice run of Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve?” 

“Dunno. But it’s genius.” 

“I brought one of those newspapers here for you. Some, if you’d like more.” 

James loves this pitifully open Joe and he’s feeling quite open himself. 

“That my Christmas present? A newspaper with you on it?” 

James laughs and Joe kicks him gently. It’s really warm in the house and James is down to a t-shirt and boxers. 

“No, no, Milly. Fuck’s sake. I’ve got you a good present as well.” 

“Because if it were, that’d be okay. Don’t need any gifts.” 

James sets his hand briefly on Joe’s shin, leaning into it a bit and Joe hums. 

“Want to see a video?” 

Joe sits up quickly and leans against James, pulling out his phone and James sighs when he sees it’s a video of Pep speaking to press. 

“Charlie, why’re you still watching videos of Pep?” 

He doesn’t answer, just presses play and scrolls to a point in the middle of the video. The press is asking about City’s upcoming fixture, but are more specifically focused on Bravo and his poor run of form for the first half of the season. It hasn’t prevented City from topping the table on Christmas, but their goal difference isn’t ideal and they aren’t ahead by an uncatchable amount of points. James thinks it’s silly, that the press is focusing on City’s seemingly only problem when they’re clearly the favorites to win the league. But Joe is very serious about showing James the video. 

_Pep, do you think City would be in a different position in the table if you had kept Joe Hart in the squad? Would you have a better goal difference or be farther ahead of Spurs in second, Arsenal in third, Liverpool in fourth?_

The pause is grumbly, the press is quite chatty, but it’s clear that Pep is uncomfortable with the question. Pep’s frowning and James thinks he catches an eye roll. 

_I think this question is bad, it’s not a question I will answer. For now, I am not, erm, I am not concerned with Joe Hart, I am not worried about him. I am not saying he is better than Claudio, not to say Joe Hart would allow us to continue title challenge more than Claudio. His form at Torino is fine. But City is fine here. I am not talking about my players outside of Manchester, don’t ask me questions about this._

“Jesus, Charlie.” 

Joe flops back down on the bed and sets his phone on the bedside table, stretching his arms behind his head and looking up at the ceiling. “Not upset. I just want to go now.” 

James looks at him with frustrated concern. “Bit too late for that, just sleep here. Don’t be stubborn.” 

“No, no. I want to leave City. Hard to say aloud. I just don’t think I’m wanted.” 

James wants to say something but Joe rolls over and reaches from his coat sat on a chair close to the bed. He digs an envelope out of the pocket and hands it to James with a small smile. 

“Happy Christmas. Your present. No more tragedy tonight.” 

Joe twists his long legs into a criss-cross and sits up, looking on at James expectantly, and James gingerly opens the envelope, thin and light. It’s a plane ticket to Italy for the early spring. James can’t look at Joe, can’t move his eyes from the little text on the ticket. 

“When you come to visit for a day or two we can play a bit of golf. I’ll show you Turin, introduce you to the boys on the team, show you the stadium. Get you fitted for a replica Hart top.” 

James laughs and rubs his cheek where it’s burning, blinks a few times before looking back up at Joe and grinning. “It’s great. It’s so great. Wish my gift for you was this good.” 

“Just happy to see you, James.” 

“You’ll have to see me again, then, on New Years' Eve.” 

Joe laughs aloud and shakes his head, bringing James into him and digging his chin into James’s shoulder, arms wrapped around James from behind. 

“You’ve not got me Liverpool v. City tickets for Christmas.” 

James doesn’t reply, turning his face away with a smile and Joe laughs brightly. 

“Brilliant. Wouldn’t miss it. Thank you, James.” 

James leans his head back and rests it in the crook of Joe’s shoulder, and Joe tightens his arms around James’s chest. 

“Happy Christmas, Charlie. Off to my own bed.” 

“You sure?” 

James nods, his hair rubbing against Joe’s cheek as he sits up and eases himself off the bed. But James is less than tired and wants more than nothing to stay with Joe, so he posts up on the couch and only makes it halfway through one Torino match before falling asleep on the couch with his tea in hand. 

Joe sees this as he sneaks out before anyone wakes up. He takes the cup out of James’s hand and shuts off the TV after seeing the match recordings. The pressure in his chest is overwhelming. 

_______________

Boxing Day at home against Stoke. James is still shivering in the locker room, sweat cold and kit sticking to his clammy skin, hair maybe a little frozen when he fumbles blindly through his locker for his phone, shaking from adrenaline. 

“Well done out there, James.” 

James slumps onto the bench, mind clearing up a bit at Joe’s voice. A painful mortification creeps in. 

“But haven’t you just finished? I can hear you shivering, get in the shower.” 

“I, erm, didn’t mean – ” 

“Don’t apologize, I’m not busy. Glad you rang me.” 

James can’t speak and he finds himself prepared to hang up or blame the call on an accident. Because why did he call Joe? Why was his first thought after winning the match to call Joe? Joe clears his throat and starts speaking again. 

“Glad you thought to ring me.” 

“I, erm. I’ve been thinking about you. Since Christmas Eve. All through today’s match.” 

James dramatically lowers his voice as other team members mosey into the locker room, noisy and cheerful despite the bitter cold. His teammates give him confused looks and Karius even drapes his bulky Liverpool coat over James’s shoulders on his way to the shower. 

“Have you then? I think about you all the time.” 

And James has no idea what’s going on, how this is escalating and how he might be in the early stages of dirty talk with his best mate in the Liverpool locker room. 

“Erm, I feel the same. I hope your Christmas went well. I’m, erm, always here. For you. Christmas holiday or not.” 

James’s leg wobbles and shakes and he pulls Karius’s coat closer, pressing the phone closer to his ear. 

“Don’t be embarrassed – I know you. You know if you ever needed anything. I would do anything for you.” 

And right at this moment, Joel’s lanky frame topples into James after being shoved by Bobby and James loses his phone. It skitters across the wet tile floor and James scrambles for it, not getting to it before Adam does. 

“Who’s Charlie? Hello, who’s this? Milly’s busy, ring him later, cheers!” 

Adam hands the phone back to James. “That’s not your wife, mate. Have you got a mistress? ‘Charlie.’” 

And everyone laughs because they all know James would be the last one to ever cheat on his wife, let alone call her while they were all together in the locker room. 

“Sorry about that.” 

“You alright? That sounded like Lallana on the phone.” 

“It was. I need to go shower before I hold up the team chat.” 

“Cheers, James. You can call me whenever you like. It’s okay.” 

And James doesn’t know what he’s doing, what they’re doing. 

_______________

New Years' Eve. Karius in goal. Clyne at right back, Milner at left back, Lovren at center back, Matip at center back. Wijnaldum, Coutinho, Henderson, and Lallana in the middle of the pitch. Mané and Studge up front. Firmino out with knock, Origi on the bench, Grujić on the bench, Can on the bench making a return from a long-term injury. Pep brings out his big guns as well. Sterling, de Bruyne, Agüero, Sané, Kelechi. Stones at the back. Bravo in goal. 

It’s a cold, bitter, ugly day. Liverpool go one down before half time at the hands of an Agüero screamer but pull one back in the forty-seventh minute. It’s James. His lungs are burning with the cold, his joints are stiff but he volleys an awkwardly bouncing ball in the box into the back of the net, Bravo coming nowhere close to saving the shot. 

And James takes off. The hands of his teammates try to grab but slip off his kit as he bolts toward the City bench, stepping around a celebrating Klopp. He shakes his finger at a wildly stern Pep, catching Pep’s eyes and pointing up into the stands where he knows Joe is, where he knows the seats are that he got for Joe, and he doesn’t care if no one but Joe understands. Because it’s about him and no one else. The wet newspapers on Christmas Eve. The years in Manchester and on the England squad. His best friend. 

Liverpool score again late in the match – Wijnaldum finally gets his first for Liverpool and the entire stadium erupts in a way James has never heard, the blood rushing through his ears amplifying the cheers. Gini is on his knees, face in his hands, and the team surrounds him, presses their foreheads to him. City shrink away. Pep sits. The match ends 2-1 and James makes rounds to his Liverpool teammates, kissing cheeks before saying hello to his old friends. David hugs him, however briefly or stiffly. There are many handshakes from men in blue that would have once been warm embraces. But it’s antarctic at Anfield and City are eager to take their leave. James even makes the point to clap Bravo on the back, who doesn’t lift his eyes from the frozen pitch as he makes his way to the tunnel. 

The Kop is crazed. Klopp comes onto the pitch and grabs James, tucking him tightly into an embrace and yelling into his ear, “What the fuck are you thinking? Wagging your finger at Pep?” But he’s grinning like a madman and clearly is not angry. James’s eyes go wide. 

“I never knew you were this exciting, Milly! Talented, yes! A leader, yes! Capable, yes! But _exciting_!” 

His teammates rub his wet hair, kiss his face, sing a song with his name in it, wagging their fingers, asking who he was pointing at in the stands. But after they’ve all showered and are getting dressed to leave, Adam sticks behind and grabs James’s arm. 

“It was for Harty. That’s Charlie. His real first name. Charles. I get it.” 

And James shrugs, hiding a smile as he bends over to pack up the last things into his bag. 

“Only bringing it up because he’s waiting outside.” 

James pops up, garnering a smirk from Adam, who follows James out and gives Joe a quick handshake as he heads out. Joe is chatting with tunnel security, and James turns to the guards with a grin before greeting Joe. 

“Sorry about him, back to work, lads. Just because you’re famous in Italy doesn’t mean you can just come into a restricted area.” 

Joe shoves him with a soft look on his face, James’s back bouncing off the wall behind him. He freezes until Joe wraps him in a hug, his arms around James’s shoulders as James’s cheek presses into Joe’s collarbone. Joe rests his forehead on James’s clean wet hair and he breathes in sharply, James settling easily into Joe. Just as James gets comfortable, Joe leans back and shoves him again, this time a grin spreading across his face, his hands on James’s shoulders, lowering his eyes to James’s level, their faces close. 

“What the fuck are you thinking, James.” 

“Not the first time I’ve heard that today.” 

“They’re going to ask you back on Men in Blazers after that.” 

And they both laugh, falling back into one another. 

“I’ve been thinking about doing that for a while. Since the beginning of the season. And since you showed me that video of Pep. If you’d been out there, it would have been different.” 

“Bet you’re thrilled I wasn’t.” 

“Can’t lie, Charlie.” 

Joe looks to the side and notices that the security guards have dispersed. He slides his hand from James’s shoulder to his elbow to his wrist. He squeezes James’s wrist gently before he moves to his hand, and James flinches a bit but opens his fingers to let Joe’s in between. 

“Liverpool has made you cheeky, Milly.” 

James is a bit breathless. “You like it?” 

Joe nods, bumping his nose to James’s, his breath warm on James’s cold face. 

“I like everything about you.” 

James looks away and Joe laughs. 

“Just trying to embarrass you.” 

“Not that hard, is it.” 

James leads him out the car park, their sides pressed firmly together. 

“You’re going to get a lot of stick for coming to Anfield to see City.” 

“Didn’t come to see City. Came to see you. You know that. And you bought the tickets, so you set me up. I’ll just consider the celebration the second part of the Christmas gift.” 

“There’s a third part for you at mine.” 

Joe shoves James gently and gapes at him, getting a shove back and a cheeky grin from James. 

“Dinner. I only mean dinner, Charlie. And maybe I’ll let you watch me do the linens.” 

James leaves Joe at his car and goes to his own, ignoring all the tweets and texts and calls he has. He’s not ready to see videos of the celebration yet. And as he starts the car, he can’t think of anything but abruptly shutting it off and getting out. So he does and sees Joe doing the exact same thing as he shuts the car door. 

They don’t exactly meet halfway – Joe seems a little stunned to see James walking toward him so quickly and pointedly – and James grabs the back of Joe’s beautiful blonde head and kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> xx


End file.
